His poems, their mockery, drew raucous laughter in the taverns and had earned him drinking and dicing companions. And sometimes the company of women afterwards. Worthwhile, accordingly. He was young enough to judge things that way.

It really was time to get out of bed. He had some distance to cover, after curfew, through streets where the ice lay in places as a coating over manure and refuse.

But it was smart to have established his presence over at The Mule earlier this evening and then to sleep here tonight. Eudes had served him two cups of wine downstairs and Thierry had played dice for a bit, low stakes. He had no money to lose. Eudes would remember, would say as much: “Thierry Villar? Yes, was here drinking with some students, why?”

It was Jad-cursed cold outside. It was cold inside. It could make a man mad, or kill him. People died in a winter like this. There were wolves in the city. They slipped through the walls, crossed the frozen river, roamed the darkness, starving, bold. You didn’t want to encounter starving wolves in the night.

The god was supposed to battle demons on behalf of mortal men and women in the black cold beneath the world now. That was probably a lot like this, Villar thought. Heresy! His mother and stepfather were deeply pious. He was…less so. He didn’t know what his father had been like. Had been too young when Rochon Larraigne had died of a fall and mother and child had come to Orane the way so many did, desperate for food and shelter. Seeking a way to survive while poverty stalked the world.

They’d been lucky. Protected by the god, his mother would say. Had said. He had an education, a life of some security ahead if he wanted it. And yet here he was, about to dress and go outside to rob a holy place. Folly and need. Someone might say greed, but he’d stay with need, thank you. When you gambled at dice or cards and lost to certain people, you really did need to pay them back. And he’d long ago spent what money he’d ever had on a woman. The wrong woman entirely.

He was halfway dressed already, lying in bed. Ridiculous, but necessary. He pushed aside the three blankets Silvy had (Jad bless her forever) and pulled on and belted his trousers over leggings. The trousers were stiff, half-frozen. Of course. He swore. A second pair of socks over the ones he already wore, then a second ice-cold woollen shirt over his tunic. He pulled on his boots with difficulty, swearing at them, too, at himself, at the Jad-cursed world.

Not at the city, mind you. He loved Orane too much.